


The World of Make-Believe

by Katbelle



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Apocalypse, Brotherhood of Mutants, Canon Compliant, Character Death, F/M, First Kiss, Fix-It, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutant Hate, Mutant Registration, NaNoWriMo, Plotty, Post-Canon, Post-Movie(s), Reunions, Road Trips, Romance, Sacrifice, Time Travel, Tragedy, Wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-10
Updated: 2012-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>This was supposed to be their last attempt at recruiting. A girl in Washington, a simple task to be performed between one chess match at the steps of Lincoln Memorial and another, back at the CIA base. But apparently, the Universe didn't like Charles Xavier enough to make it that easy.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After a disastrous end of the recruitment road trip, Charles embarks on another journey and finds himself in a grim world that proves to be more than a nightmare. With the help of a team of exceptional mutant misfits and their surprising leader,  Charles races across the US in order to save the man he loves. But the question is - will he be able to do this before he runs out of time?</p><p>And is this world truly all that will ever be?</p><p> </p><p>  <strong>On hiatus till the Author figures out her fucked-up life. Which, for now, means indefinitely.</strong></p>
            </blockquote>





	The World of Make-Believe

**The World of Make-Believe**

One: Powerless

_2011_

The piercing scream reverberated through the night, cutting into the calm quiet, slicing it, carving, leaving bone-deep hollowness in its wake. It was the kind of sound that was never to be heard in horrors; more sincere and petrifying than anything a human might try to imitate. This wasn’t a scream of a person paid to play-pretend to be afraid - this was the sound of pure terror, something beyond imagination that maybe, just maybe, would be heard as the world ends. It rarely did so with a whimper, seldom with a bang and never in silence; it ended with a last breath drawn with difficulty, a desperate cry of the last witness that spoke more of pain and desolation than pleas for help that will not come nonetheless. It’s the cry not of the helpless, but of the hopeless, the last act of the last of its kind.

That was the scream that echoed between the walls of the Trask family estate and that woke up the inhabitants of the master bedroom. Simon Trask blinked owlishly and glanced at the clock sitting on the bedside table. 2:43, the LCD display read, and Simon Trask ran a hand over his face, sighing tiredly. He had a most pleasant dream that involved naked Victoria’s Secret angels and the Oval Office, and _fuck his life_ because he was woken up by-- Trask gasped.

“Larry,” Francesca Trask whispered beside him, keeping a hand clutched to the fabric of her pinstriped pajama right over her undoubtly racing heart.

A horrifying scream that wasn’t a part of any dream scenario, that was as real as him and his wife and their house, a scream that just had to come from his son’s bedroom as there was no one else in the house who could have emitted that kind of sound or was known to do so.

“Larry,” Trask repeated in a way of confirmation and pushed the covers off his legs. The scream - and come to think of it, Trask had never heard something so primal and scary before and he had years and years of military service for Colonel Stryker under his belt. Years of learning about mutants, studying and gathering intelligence - just like his father did for old Billy - and nothing prepared him for this.

Trask padded down the dark corridor of the second floor of his house and stopped in front of his son’s bedroom door. One breath in, one breath out and he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it, pushed the door slightly ajar and reached to the switch on the right of the doorframe to turn on the lights. Larry Trask was sitting upright on his bed, surrounded by his Avengers plushies that clashed awfully with the Batman covers he was currently sleeping under. Larry’s amber-like eyes were wide opened and for a moment Trask was sure that his son turned a lighter shade of brown. He was not, as far as Trask could tell, looking and actually _seeing_ his father at all. Trask stepped into the room and moved to his son’s bedside in three long strides. He kneeled on the floor and took Larry’s hand, squeezed it several times in carefully timed periods. Three quick squeezes to draw Larry’s attention, two long ones to ground him in reality, one strong one to remind him who he is and where he is.

“Lawrence,” Trask whispered into his son’s ear and repeated the process. Doctor Zane often said that one round might not be enough to draw Larry back. “Lawrence, it was just a dream.”

It was not just a dream and Trask knew it well. The older Larry got, the stronger those - visions - became. And that was the second problem with Larry’s mutation, surpassed only by the sole fact that it was _there_ ; the dreams were not just dreams, were more than that, but were never coherent enough to be classified as prophecies. Mostly they were just general impressions of things that might or might not come true, like the type of a cake that Great-Aunt Tanya prepared for Larry’s birthday or the outcome of the dangerous car accident that Senator LeBeau was involved in. Luckily, Larry’s mutation wasn’t hard to hide and disguise as simple nightmares.

“He’s coming,” Larry said in a flat voice he always used while still engrossed by his latest vision. “The Good Shepherd is coming and he will change the outcome of decisions made. The White King will rise again, and there will be a choice. He’s coming and then there will be none. He is coming, he is returning.”

“Of course, baby,” Trask tried to comfort his son with a smile. Larry blinked and moved his eyes to look at his father. His lower lip quivered and he swallowed.

“Everything will change, daddy.”

Trask took a deep breath. He was back, thank _God_. Whatever this vision was about, it wasn’t as scary as he initially thought, otherwise Larry would have been trashing on his bed, mumbling and spitting.

“Well,” started Trask as he reached out to ruffle Larry’s dark locks, “isn’t change a good thing?”

Larry shrugged and put his arms around his knees. He was disturbed, that much was obvious, but he wasn’t scared and he wasn’t trying to warn anyone, effectively outing his parents’ secret that way. The vision couldn’t personally affect anyone Larry knew then; another flash of something they’ll hear on the news in a couple of days and that didn’t concern them in the slightest. Larry’s driving force was to protect - if he wasn’t alarming people of possible danger, it wasn’t there.

That was what Simon Trask told himself. The alternative - that the vision concerned _everyone_ and Larry just couldn’t warn them even if he wanted to - was something that did not bear thinking about.

_1962_

“I wonder if we gave up too soon.”

Erik turned his head to the right to look at Charles. His companion had a stern, almost worried expression on his face and was biting his nails with passion Erik only associated with toddlers. Their recent Chinatown fiasco - a crown jewel in a string of failed recruitment meetings all over the East Coast - was sitting heavy with him as well, but Charles took it particularly bad. Usually, the mutants had let them talk at least, present their case, state the advantages, before they shut them down without remorse. The bulky flannel guy however, he didn’t even refuse to listen to them. Told them to go fuck themselves, really. Erik swallowed and glanced sideways again. He wondered if the guy actually meant for them to go and fuck _each other_. He wondered if Charles picked it up in the guy’s head and if that was why he was upset. If maybe Charles had picked it up in Erik’s head back in the bar, or back on the road, in one of the countless dingy motel rooms when Erik wanted nothing more than to slam Charles into a wall and kiss him senseless and--

“Erik, mind the road.”

Erik shook his head. Either Charles was really good at pretending he didn’t know what Erik wanted to do - Erik honestly doubted that, he saw Charles’ poker face when they were trying to recruit a casino employee in Vegas and it was _awful_ \- or he was oblivious to the desire and unresolved sexual tension that was so thick you could stick a knife into it. While the latter option was much more probable than the former, it made life with Charles much more difficult. Charles, for all his intelligence and undisputable charm, was not a particularly observant person. Raven had warned him about that, about Charles not knowing when to stop pushing, about what she called a “foot-in-the-mouth” syndrome, about the stuttering and the blushing and saying all the wrong things at the wrong times. All things considered, Erik would gladly take the wrong things if that meant he could address the issue of this… this _thing_ between them. Even if Charles said that Erik had no chance, it would be fine. They didn’t have to be romantically involved to be important to one another and Erik would value Charles and their friendship just as much as he did before Charles decided to break his apparently existing heart.

“Maybe we should have offered to pay for his drink at the very least.”

Erik chuckled. Of course, leave it to Charles to think that you can get everything with the right amount of money and alcohol. Not that it was a particularly bad technique; usually it was even a _good_ technique, just not in this case. Erik doubted the bar could provide the amount of alcohol they’d need to convince the guy to listen to them, much less to agree with them and to go with them . Erik knew this type - brooding and dark, a fighter who’s seen one bad thing too many in his life. Erik saw that face every time he looked into the rearview mirror. Not even Charles at his best and most eloquent could persuade the guy to join them, not if the guy didn’t have his own agenda in it. The way Erik had, that first night, back in Richmond.

“It wouldn’t have made a difference,” Erik said and tried to smile reassuringly. Charles pouted and lowered his eyes miserably. Erik slammed the brakes and stopped the car, nearly making Charles bang his head against the glass. “Out of the car.”

“What?” Charles asked, confused. He rubbed at his neck where the seatbelt had bitten into his pale skin, leaving an angry red mark. “Erik, what are you doing?”

“I’m going to make you feel better,” Erik replied and unbuckled his own seatbelt. He opened the door, then gestured at the one on the passenger’s side. Charles’ door opened on its own and Charles shook his head lightly. “Out of the car, Charles.”

While Charles scrambled to get out, Erik had already slammed the driver’s side door shut and moved to stand behind the boot. They didn’t have a lot of things: two duffel bags with clothes, a file with the coordinates from the Cerebro and maps where Charles had circled all their destinations. Beside all that, in a battered, leather bag, there lied an old wooden chess set that Charles had bought from an antique shop owner whose power was to know an object’s history after simply touching it. The owner, of course, refused to go to Richmond with them, but offered Charles a discount price for the set. The purchase made Charles giddy and turned out to be the source of joy after a long, tiring day and their only entertainment for weeks at the time.

Erik took out the chess set, closed the boot and looked expectantly at Charles. His partner shifted from one leg to the other and licked his chapped lips, making them look redder than usual. He looked around and his eyes widened when he recognized where they were. Erik smirked. For some reason, Charles thought that people weren’t listening to him. Maybe that was the case with Raven or Charles’ half-brained Oxford friends, but Erik listened. Erik listened and filed everything, every scrap of information tagged with a relevant comment, put away until the day Erik might have a need for this or that memory. Erik knew that Charles was in Washington only once. Erik knew that Charles had always wanted to go sightseeing but never had the chance to. Well, maybe they didn’t have time for sightseeing today - or in the foreseeable future for that matter - but Erik would be _damned_ if he at least didn’t make sure that Charles got to see Lincoln Memorial. _Erik_ had visited Lincoln Memorial three times already and none of his trips abroad were for touristic purposes. It was just sad that Charles, an American, was thirty and there for the first time in his life.

“Come on,” Erik prompted and led Charles to the steps of the Memorial from where they’d have the most amazing view of the grounds and the obelisk. Erik sat down and started setting up the chess set. Charles was still standing, looking uncertain and a bit uncomfortable. Erik grinned and pointed the space opposite him. Charles slid to the ground and took the white king that Erik handed him. He moved the piece between his fingers before setting it on the board and starting the game with his favourite opening. Erik smirked. How predictable.

“We’re never going to be able to bring in everyone we meet, Charles.”

 _And thank goodness for that_ , Erik thought as he took Charles’ pawn. He didn’t like the idea of the CIA owning Cerebro, or even of them having the coordinates that Charles had provided. He was glad that there were others like them still out there, not involved with the government in any way. Still unknown. That was for the best; this whole operation that MacTaggert thought she had any control over already seemed too much like an awful déjà vu.

“I can’t stop thinking about the others out there,” Charles said wistfully, losing interest in the game for a moment. “All those minds that I’ve touched. I could feel them. Their isolation, their hopes, their ambitions.” He turned his head towards Erik and smiled that little smile of his, just with the corners of his mouth. Charles at his sincerest and most unguarded. “I tell you, we've started something incredible, Erik. We can help them.”

That brilliant idealist. Erik didn’t find any satisfaction in bringing Charles back to Earth, but he had to. He had to at least try and make Charles see the harsh reality, wake him up from his pipe dream of peaceful coexistence and world peace. If Charles didn’t realize this on his own, then he would never be able to protect himself and Erik would have to do it instead. Not that Erik would mind - in those few short months Charles had managed to get under Erik’s skin unnoticed, he’d carved himself a Charles-shaped niche in Erik’s life and Erik didn’t like to contemplate just how many people he was willing to kill to make sure that that little smile would never disappear from Charles’ face. So no, it wasn’t that there was anything Erik wouldn’t be willing to do for Charles; it was that Erik was _sure_ that Charles would wholeheartedly disapprove of his methods.

“Can we?” Erik asked and didn’t look at Charles’ crumbling expression.

_2005_

Raven glanced at the man sitting in the furthest corner of the café; he immediately dropped his gaze and pretended to be interested in a newspaper that was lying in front of him. He was tall and grey-haired, dressed in a well-tailored suit that was too good to wear in this neighbourhood; the red sunglasses didn’t help much. The man was holding his suitcase on his knees, right under the table - obviously, he was not used to places like this one, where you could get robbed every minute and no one would even bat an eyelash. The guy had an upper-Manhattan look about him that he was trying hard to mask. Not a policeman then. Maybe an agent; FBI would be the more obvious choice - she used to be a well-known criminal, after all - but the CIA still had some residual files on her, back from the brief time when she was on their paycheck. Raven laughed under breath. She didn’t have her powers anymore, but she was far from helpless. It wasn’t just the shapeshifting that had made her Magneto’s right-hand woman; it wasn’t even the fondness and affection he had for her, both as Mystique, the proud mutant, and Raven, Charles Xavier’s little sister. It was her sharp mind and tactical skills, and agility. If necessary, she could take this guy out and escape via the emergency exit at the back of the café. She’d have to go back to her apartment and pack the most valuable things, just leave the rest; hopefully she’d make it to her place before they raid it. Or maybe not, maybe they’d be there already, waiting for her. Better to leave all the stuff, nothing there was particularly important to her anyway.

“Excuse me… Miss Raven Darkholme?”

Raven blinked and the guy flashed her his perfectly even, white teeth. He pushed his sunglasses back from the tip of his nose and extended his hand that Raven, stunned, shook. The guy reached into his pocked and procured a card that he handed her.

“I’m Jack White,” he introduced himself, “from Whedon and White.”

“Lawyer?” asked Raven, turning the card around. The address was an Upper East Side one; Whedon and White had to be an expensive, posh firm, way above anything the people who might want to sue her could ever afford.

“Yes,” White nodded. “My firm has been representing Mr. Xavier for the past few years. It’s been difficult to find you, Miss Darkholme, tracking you took our investigators much longer than we--"

“Wait, what?”

White frowned and shook his head. Raven stared at him, convinced that she was hearing things. She was, wasn’t she? She had to be. It was one thing to expect a lawsuit - or a bunch of them, actually, but none ever came - but it was another to hear that the first person to deliver one was _Charles_. Despite everything, she’d never thought that he would do that. Then again, why shouldn’t he? He had every reason to try and charge her for intimidation, gross bodily harm. Hell, if this White guy was as good as his card seemed to suggest, they could have her for attempted murder.

“Seven years ago, Whedon and White was employed by Mr. Charles Xavier to handle his affairs,” White explained slowly and Raven grimaced. But no, she had no right to feel disappointed or sad. “In the light of the recent events, we were tasked with the execution of Mr. Xavier’s will.”

Raven nodded grimly before the full meaning of White’s words slammed into her. She swayed and had to grip the counter to keep her balance. She dropped White’s card and tuned out White’s concerned voice asking if she was alright. She was not alright. Will? As in, a _will_? Jesus Christ. She swallowed. There had to be a misunderstanding, surely.

“I-- I don’t understand,” she murmured. “A will? But Charles--"

“Perhaps a will is not the best term,” White corrected himself. “While we did discuss all the potential futures for his school and Mr. Xavier left us specific instructions about it, the issue of the private estate was never breached. Therefore, after his passing, we had-- _Oh_.” White must have seen something on her face, because he shifted uncomfortably behind the counter and a much more sympathetic expression appeared on his face. “You--You didn’t know.”

Raven didn’t quite manage the snarky response she was planning; instead, she let out a strangled noise, something between a disbelieving snort and a broken sob. White bit his lip and tentatively touched her hand, patted her on the wrist. When she made no move to hit him or shoo him, he took her hand and led her to the table he was previously occupying. He sat her down and took a place opposite her. He put his briefcase on the table, opened it and took out a set of document and a pen.

“According to intestacy law,” White started explaining softly, “when a person dies without having made a will or any other binding declaration, all the property from their estate is then inherited by the next of kin. For the last couple of months the investigators from our firm have been trying to find out who that would be.” Raven nodded mutely. “And every trail led us to you, Miss Darkholme. You are our client’s only surviving relative.” He pushed the documents towards her. “As it is, we might even avoid courts. There’s no one to battle you for the inheritance, and the state of affairs is so good that no one will sue you for anything.”

Raven caught the edge of the paper and pulled the document closer. White grasped the pen and pointed out the detailed list of the estate in question.

“The intestate property includes current assets located in three banks, in New York, London and Zurich, real estate in Oxford and all the personal belongings,” White read out. “Also, formally, you are now named as the sole owner of a Breakstone Park mansion in North Salem, Westchester County. However, you do not have any actual decisive power over that property. My client was adamant that it remains a school governed by the board members of the Xavier Foundation.”

The list started blurring before her, swimming in her vision, and Raven blinked. Two tears dropped onto the paper, wetting it. Opposite her, White sighed. Raven looked up at him; he had a sort of pitying smile plastered on his face, but his eyes were so indescribably sad. She didn’t have the energy to despise the pity. She handed him back the document and marveled in the surprise showing on his face.

“I don’t want it,” she said and meant it. She didn’t want the money - Charles’ money - and she didn't want any of the other things that the solicitor talked about. The flat - _their_ flat - in Oxford, dusty and empty, lifeless, unvisited since that morning when they'd left for Charles' presentation and got recruited by Moira MacTaggert in the evening. The personal belongings - and God, that'd be all the books and manuscripts, Charles' awards, the diamond crochet necklace that Charles got after Mother's death and promised to give to Raven on her wedding day - and _the mansion_. It was everything that used to be important, used to be hers as well. Everything she didn't want anything to do with, didn't have the right to, not anymore.

"Then it will be taken over by the government," White said flatly. "In case there is no inheritor, the estate will become the property of the state. I'm sure you'd like to avoid that, Miss Darkholme."

"I don't want this," she repeated. White sighed.

"It's only the matter of you officially accepting the inheritance, Miss Darkholme." He tapped the document. "After that, it is yours to do with as you please. You don't want it? Sell the Oxford apartment, give away the money, transfer it all to Mr. Xavier's school's fund. There are many _good_ things you can do with the money. Better that than to give it to the government that is so openly hostile towards us."

White stressed the last word and winked at her when Raven's blue eyes widened. Us. _Us_. And he meant… He meant _mutants_. Shit. Holy _shit_. Raven tried to fight the laughing fit, but failed miserably. It wasn't loud, and her laugh had an undercurrent of bone-deep sadness and desperation. But, mutants. Charles hired mutant lawyers. That was so-- so _Charles_ of him, and Raven didn't notice when her laugh turned into sobs. She wiped the tears with the sleeve of her uniform and declined a handkerchief that White had offered.

"Fine," she said and White flashed her his brilliant smile. "Where do I sign?"

_2006_

The devastated part of the mansion was still burning when he stepped onto the grounds for the first time in years. He stood at the landing, with head turned up high, taking in all of the grandeur of the Xavier estate. It was a pitiful caricature of the moment he'd seen the building for the first time; late summer, the same man in similar casual clothing, standing in the same spot with the same expression on his face. But there was no one with him now, no one to turn to, to talk or joke or share hopeless dreams with, to love and hate equally for not being real. And the building itself, it was far from its former glory. Destroyed and abandoned, with parts still fuming, it was difficult to reconcile this place with the magnificent and bursting with life Breakstone Park that he remembered from even a month ago.

Supposedly, _officially_ , the destruction was caused by an anti-mutant terrorist attack arranged by an unknown organization. Unknown only for the sake of the press and publicity, unless of course the White House had no idea who they'd been employing. Risman was a president less than four months and was already showing his true plans for the mutants. Going after individuals, that much could be understood, but bombing the school? Risman's long-lasting friendship with William Stryker was showing.

He left the landing and made his way to the secluded garden on the grounds, close to the lake. He knew what was there, what was supposed to be there - his intel _was_ good, for all that it was worth - but he'd never seen it before. Never intended to, if he was being honest with himself. But that was before. Before Risman, before the attack, before that last shred of a long-forgotten dream was destroyed with a few well-placed bombs. Magneto brushed his fingers over the tombstone, which miraculously survived untouched, still in one piece while almost nothing else on the property was as lucky. Magneto smiled when he thought of Charles, this Charles - different, not his, dead - and how fitting it was that his stone was the last thing standing.

"Defiant until the very end," he murmured to himself and placed a metal white king at the foot of the stone. He didn't need it anymore; he'd taken it as a victory token from the park, on the day he managed to move it on a chess board. Always kept it close, in the inside pocket of every jacket he wore, as a reminder that if he worked hard enough, he'd get his powers back. And he did, the range of things he could do was almost as impressive as it used to be. Maybe he couldn't move satellite dishes yet, but he was getting there, one slow step at a time.

"What the _fuck_ are doing here?"

Now that was a surprise. He straightened slowly and turned around to face a pale-skinned, dark-haired woman with wild blue eyes. She was standing tall and proud, with hands crossed over her chest.

"Mystique, my dear," he said and she narrowed her eyes so that they resembled little slits. She was tapping her foot, waiting for an answer, and in that position, angry-impatient-bored, she suddenly reminded him of her brother more than ever before.

"I asked you a question."

"I'm visiting an old friend," Magneto answered and didn't explain whether he'd meant her or the grave. Better leave her to draw her own conclusions, which she did. Her gaze flickered to the tombstone - he didn't remember the last time he'd seen her look so _soft_ \- and she nodded.

"What happened?" he asked, motioning the mansion with his head. Of course, he knew the official story, it made the front page in all the major newspapers, but that wasn't what he was interested in. A month ago, this was an enormous school and now the building was empty, deserted and abandoned, and all those people - _children_ \- had to go somewhere, hadn't they?

"They came right before the dawn," Mystique started her story in a measured, emotionless tone. She was trying hard. "Fucking anti-mutant SWAT. Before they had a chance to notice what was happening, the bombs went off." She pointed the collapsed part of the building behind her. "Forty-one died in the explosions, I have no idea how many more in the subsequent shooting. Storm got Nightcrawler and all the other teleporters to transport the kids into safety. Canada, I think. Wolverine's idea."

"How many?"

"Less than they'd like to." Mystique grimaced. "The Purifiers, that's what they called themselves. And kids, they attacked _kids_."

Children were a sensitive topic with her, one that was better not be discussed. Magneto cleared his throat.

"And you?"

"I'm just a lowly little human," she shrugged. "Not posing a threat whatsoever. I intend to stay here."

"Mystique," he started, "I've told you, the war--"

"--is coming, yes," she finished in a bored tone. "And trust me, I _am_ intending to fight it, with all my power and by any means necessary. But I'm not going to fight it with _you_." She pointed the grave. "Pay your respects or whatever, I don't care. When you're done, I want you the fuck _out_ of my property. And if you ever return, I'll kill you. You know that I will."

He knew. Oh, how well he knew.

_1962_

"For now," Erik finished grimly, then tipped the black king over. Suddenly, he'd lost the desire to play chess anymore. In a few hours they'd be back in Richmond, back with the CIA, again at their mercy. Charles and MacTaggert, they might think that this is the start of a brilliant friendship, that they're valuable to the CIA, but Erik and that Graves guy knew better. They were valuable, allies, for as long as they were useful. The moment that ceased to be true, they'd be killed, without blinking, without remorse.

"There's a girl living in Columbia Heights," Charles said quietly. Erik looked at him and saw that joyful, expectant expression back on his friend's face. This look suited Charles much more than resignation or sadness, made him appear a lot younger than he was and his eyes looked a darker shade of blue when he was happy. Erik loved that expression, loved the way a simple smile could transform Charles from handsome to breathtakingly beautiful. He'd gladly devote his whole life to making sure that smile stayed on Charles' face. He'd do anything for that.

Everything.

"And?" Erik asked though he knew perfectly well what Charles was going to suggest. He wasn't wrong.

"We have some time still," Charles said as if he thought that Erik needed convincing. Erik didn't need convincing, Erik would already do all Charles might ask of him. "We could go and talk to her. It's not far from here, and after that we could go and eat dinner together."

"Fine," Erik said in a tone that he hoped had communicated how tiring he found Charles' never-ending requests. Charles laughed and beamed at the mock exasperation and Erik felt himself smile. It was easy, with Charles. Charles made everything seem easy. He made Erik want to be _happy_ when he was sure he didn't remember what that word meant.

Charles packed the chess board and followed Erik back to the car. Once inside, Charles turned on the radio while Erik was trying to find his way to Columbia Heights. It took Erik a minute to notice that Charles was not only tapping on his thigh in tune with the song, but also humming it under his breath. Erik strained to hear; Charles wasn't that good a singer - Erik had once known more than enough good singers to be able to say that - but it was pleasant to hear him go off tune in the lower notes and completely butcher the song in the higher ones. Suddenly Charles went quiet. He blushed a bright red and lowered his eyes, embarrassed. He must have noticed that Erik was listening to him. Or he'd caught the less than complimentary comment about murdering classic jazz.

"Sorry," he murmured. "Raven always reminds me not to do that."

"Do what?"

"Randomly start to sing-along when I know the words." Charles turned an even deeper shade of red, if that was possible. "She says it's annoying."

"It's not annoying," Erik said immediately. _It's adorable_ , he thought, hopefully not loud enough for Charles to hear.

"Still, sorry." Charles turned his head to look out of the window. "I doubt Miss Fitzgerald would be happy to know I kill her every song with my _talent_." Erik laughed. The way Charles put an emphasis on 'talent' was ridiculous. Was he really upset that he couldn't sing well? There were other, much more amazing, things he _could_ do. "It's just… I like jazz. And my mother liked jazz," Charles said unexpectedly. "It was one of the very few things we've had in common."

He fell silent. If there was anything that Erik had learnt about Charles during those few months on the road was that Charles didn't like to talk about his parents, almost as much as Erik didn't want to talk about his. So this, this was big, Charles offering some information freely, not pressured into it by Erik's insisting.

"My mother was a musician," Erik volunteered a piece of information as well. Charles raised his brows. Erik quickly realized that Charles was exaggerating when he'd said he knew everything about Erik. He had an impression of everything that happened, but there were still so many details with which Erik managed to catch him off-guard. The fact that one of Erik's paternal ancestors or another was Irish - though it did explain why Erik's hair often seemed reddish under the light, Charles said - that his grandfather was a professor. Tiny things that used to be unimportant, but gained a whole new meaning when Erik had someone to contemplate sharing them with. "She used to be an opera singer before I was born."

Charles blinked few times and then groaned, tried to hide his head in his hands.

"Then you surely know how awful I am," his words came out muffled. When he finally looked up, he was mortified. "Raven had a private music teacher when we were little, and Mrs. Mendel always told me that I had no talent. It never bothered me, because she was a professional and I've never know anyone with a good ear, and now _God_. I've made a fool out of myself."

"Charles, you weren't singing in order to get a place in La Scala," Erik laughed as he turned left into the district and started looking for the right street. "You were doing it for fun. And I--" Charles swallowed loudly and Erik decided to be merciful on him. "I liked it. You were happy, relaxed. I like you that way." He stopped the car. He unbuckled and turned to face Charles whose eyes were suddenly so big and blue. "I--"

Whatever he was going to say was silenced by Charles two fingers pressed to his lips. The fingers then moved to the side of his head, then to his cheek and Charles leaned in, covered Erik's lips with his own red ones. It was brief and chaste, just a peck, but it still left Erik flushed and breathless. Charles pulled back just a little, but remained close enough for them to share the same air with every breath taken.

"Tell me I'm reading this right," Charles whispered and sounded so _scared_ that Erik wondered for a second what might have happened to him, once. Erik licked his lips, then went to capture Charles'. It was longer this time, and slower, and Erik dared to use his tongue. Charles did jump in surprise at that, but didn't try to scoot away. A partial victory then.

"You are," Erik confirmed after they'd parted. Charles looked at him with the blue eyes warm with affection and wide with want. Who would have thought; after months spent together in motels in various state of dirty and disgusting, sharing the same small space of the '59 Impala Moira got them for _hours_ , dancing around each other for what seemed like an eternity, they finally address the issue in that same small car, on some unimportant street in Washington, almost at the finish of their trip. Charles released a shaky breath.

"I'm so--" he trailed off. He could end that sentence in so many ways. _Sorry_? Hopefully not. _Scared_? That much was obvious, Charles almost _reeked_ with fear and Erik didn't like any of the possible scenarios as of why. _Happy_? That was something that could be arranged, and Erik would love to see to that. _Aroused_? If he wasn't, Erik was clearly doing something wrong.

As it was, Charles never got to finish that sentence as Erik dragged his thumb across his lower lip, causing Charles' eyelids to flutter shut and a sigh escape those perfect lips. Erik wanted nothing more than to turn the car around and drive them back to Richmond, take Charles to his assigned room and make him sigh like that some more. But they were already here, just a few blocks from their last potential recruit and it would be redundant to leave now. The Columbia Heights girl - a teenage African-American if Erik remembered correctly - could prove to have a valuable mutation, could agree to go with them - and Sean would be happy, finally someone closer to his own age - and might literally turn the tables for them. _Hell, she'd already changed something_ , Erik thought as he looked at Charles, who was starting to smile that perfect little smile that was meant only for Erik.

Erik was going to thank the girl. No matter her decision, he was going to thank her. And then he was going to learn how Charles' moans sounded and tasted like.

"We should go," he murmured regretfully. Charles stroked his cheek.

"I know."

Charles didn't want to. Hell, Erik didn't either, but if there was one thing Germans were better at than anyone else - and Erik's uncle used to be a proof of that - it was being rational. Charles was all for stalling, but Erik knew that the quicker they left the car and dealt with the girl, the quicker they'd be back, together and alone. Erik turned his head and kissed Charles' palm, then reached to open his door. With his power, he took care of the passenger's side door as well.

"Let's go."

They'd managed to locate the street and were now only looking for the right house. Hank's coordinates were very good and helpful, but they weren't perfect and they usually had to knock on few doors before finding the right family. As it were, this time they were lucky; their description of a 5 feet 6" tall, skinny black girl with braided hair produced a result with the fourth person they've asked. An elderly man smiled widely and told them that yes, he knew her, little Tanya from just across the street. They thanked the man and ran across the street. Charles took a deep breath and knocked on the door. A shabby bald man answered.

"Wha?" he asked and spitted a little around the cigarette loosely held between his lips.

"Good afternoon, my name is Charles Xavier," Charles introduced them, "and this is Erik Lehnsherr. We're looking for Tanya."

The man narrowed his eyes and Erik shifted nervously. The man was possibly the girl's father. The last time they had to deal with family members was in Alabama where they went to pick up Sean. After the initial shock of having two grown-up men stalk him in an aquarium, Sean was enthusiastic about the whole prospect of being an undercover CIA agent. His parents, however, were less thrilled and Erik and Charles had to spend four hours of quality time in the Cassidy Keep, as Sean jokingly called his family house. Liam and Victoria Donnely Cassidy asked them all the right questions about their son's safety and prospects of getting home for Christmas, and listened to - Charles', mostly - their answers with moderate interest, and Victoria Donnely made them tea afterwards. From that point, however, it got only worse and worse, as Victoria Donnely shoved her eldest daughter Deidre at Charles and the youngest, Cailin, took a terrifying liking to Erik and his big hands and a soft turtleneck.

All things considered, Erik didn't like dealing with families of their prospective recruits and was immensely glad that neither Angel nor Alex had anyone to introduce them to.

"Tanya?" the man slurred and the stench of alcohol was so potent that Erik had hard time not covering his nose. "Alright." He opened the door wider and let them inside. "Tanya!" he yelled in the direction of the stairs. "Tanya, get yer skinny ass down here! Some important shits are here to see ya!"

The man grumbled something as they waited for the girl to come. Several minutes later light footsteps were heard upstairs and a teenage girl appeared. She was tense and kept her arms close to her body, tell-all signs of fear and nasty experience. Erik knew that and straightened immediately, satisfied to notice that he was at least a head taller than the girl's father. What was also interesting - and a bit alarming - was that Charles reacted in a similar fashion.

"Talk to 'em," Tanya's father said and waved an unlit cigarette in front of Erik's nose.

"But dad," Tanya started carefully, "I can't now. I have to go and pick up Bolivar in a few minutes…"

"Ya think I can't pick up my own son from school?!" Tanya's father barked and the girl seemed to shrink at that. "Ya little, ungrateful--"

"Maybe we could talk upstairs?" Charles interrupted smoothly and Tanya's father calmed down. Erik suspected that Charles made him so. "I promise, Tanya, it will take just a few minutes."

The girl nodded and led them upstairs and to her room. It wasn't big - much smaller than Erik's room at Graves' facility and _that_ was saying a lot - and was painted with the most depressing, beige paint. There was a small bed - looking as comfortable as his CIA one - a desk crammed between the window and a tiny wardrobe. And, opposite the room from the desk, a bookshelf. Erik inspected the shelves while Charles settled with the girl on her bed and talked to her about groovy mutations. There were several books: some Austen, Charles' favourite pick-me-up, but also Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky and Erik decided that he might be willing to consider liking this Tanya. What drew his attention, however, was a collection of snowballs that was standing on the top shelf. Curiously enough, some of them were cracked, empty. Erik reached to touch one of them when a shriek interrupted him.

"No!"

He turned around to find both Charles and the girl standing, Charles with his hands up in a gesture that was universally indicating that he meant no harm, and the girl half across the room from him, shaking violently. Charles was taking small steps towards Tanya, apparently unaware of the way the girl wriggled her fingers. Maybe Charles just didn't think that motion meant anything; it certainly made Erik uneasy, for reason half-forgotten and despised.

"You won't-- I won't let you--" Tanya was saying and Charles kept getting closer to her. Erik prepared to run to them, jump over in case she tried anything looking remotely dangerous. "It's dangerous, you wouldn't know, I won't let you--"

"Tanya, it's fine," Charles said with a smile and started dropping his hands. "We're here to help. We're mutants, just like you. We can help you learn to control your power, we--"

"NO!"

It happened during no more than five seconds. Charles reached to wrap his fingers around Tanya's wrist, the - scared, terrified, angry - girl had decided him a threat and wanted to deal with it. She was skinny and even Charles could take her out in a fight if it came down to it, but she was obviously going to use her power, whatever it was. There were sparkles of light between her fingers and Charles was still not seeing that, now only a few steps away from her. Tanya threw her hand out in an attempt to strike Charles and Erik charged at the same time. He noticed that Charles eyes' widened comically as he threw himself at Tanya, between the girl and Charles, and that he was mouthing Erik's name over and over, every time with a more desperate expression. And then Tanya's hand collided with Erik's shoulder blade. There was an explosions of blindingly white light and then…

Nothing.

***

There was too much light, of that Erik was sure. His head was throbbing horribly and he had a distinct taste of the old carpet in his mouth. There was a time when Erik was quite good at licking carpets after bad nights and now everything seemed to be an unwanted repeat of one of those bad nights. Erik tried to open his eyes, but the sudden brightness was too much, so he shut them close again.

"Erik… Erik, ERIK."

Above him, someone was repeating his name much too loudly and in a slightly annoyed manner. Other than that, it was actually nice to hear; the voice was soft and accented, its owner rolled the vowels of Erik's name in a sing-song way, made the last consonant sound firm and hard, but not in a cold way. Erik liked that voice.

"Erik, for goodness sake!"

Come to think of it, he also liked the owner. Erik slowly opened his eyes again and stared into Charles' bright blue eyes. Charles was crouching near him, on the floor somewhere that wasn't-- oh, it wasn't that girl's room, the colour of the paint was different, a boring, government grey, not the creepy beige. Did Charles move him? Were they back at the base? If yes, why was he - Erik lifted his head to look around - lying on the floor?

"What happened?" Erik asked, but it came out more as 'whtaapnd'. Charles sighed and shook his head. He stood up and extended his hand to help Erik back on his feet. The world spun dangerously in front of Erik's eyes, before it finally settled. The concern on Charles' face was mixed with irritation. So surely, nothing bad could have happened.

"You drank too much," Charles answered Erik's previous, slurred question. He must have got the meaning of Erik's words from his mind, there was no way he could have understood what Erik actually said.

"Drank?" Erik frowned. He didn't remember that. They were standing in his CIA room, so they had to have gotten back from Washington. Did they recruit the girl and decided it called for a celebration? Did they fail to recruit a second person the same day and Erik decided that Charles needed to drink? And why didn't Erik remember any of it?

"At least, I think so," Charles further explained, causing more confusion with that statement. "I mean, what other reason you might have to lie on the floor, barely conscious?"

None, was the answer, but Erik honestly didn't think he was drinking. The last thing he remembered was the shelf with the snowballs, and the light, blinding and bright, and white in the way he once might have envisioned death.

"How's the girl?" he asked after Charles helped him onto his bed. Erik reached for Charles' hand that Charles quickly snatched away. Erik frowned.

"What girl?"

The frown deepened. Charles seemed genuinely confused about the question. Was that the girl's power? To make people temporarily forget things? Forget them permanently?

"The girl from Columbia Heights," Erik reminded him. "Tanya… Tanya something."

That gave him no response other than further confusion and a shake of Charles' head. No recognition of the events whatsoever; it was like, for Charles, the visit to Columbia Heights hadn't ever happened. Erik felt a chill run down his spine.

"Charles, what happened in the car--"

"What happened?" Charles furrowed his brows. "You took me to Lincoln Memorial, thank you for that, by the way," Charles smiled at him. "After that we packed and headed back here. I went to see Moira and you holed up in your room, only to be found by me, now, in this sorry state."

Charles pounded Erik on the back, and got up. He cocked his head to the side and listened in, then motioned the door.

"Moira says we need to meet her. She got the permission to take us to Russia." He beamed. "Brilliant. Now we only need to talk with the children."

Erik was sure that only strong, iron will was making Charles not jump around and clap his hands like an over-excited five-year-old. Russia... That's what Moira had told them in the morning, that Shaw was going to Russia, that they could catch him there, that she'd fight to get them a clearance and to have the higher-ups green-lit the mission. In the morning. Last morning? This morning? Erik pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. He couldn't be sure. He thought it was yesterday, but then again, Charles said they'd never visited that Tanya girl and Erik _remembered that_. Maybe that's what her power was all about - making people forget that they'd ever met her. She wanted to make them forget, but she accidentally touched Erik and it made him immune to the effects. That had to be it, surely.

There was also the issue of Charles not remembering the car - what happened in it, to be precise - but that could be a domino effect from the girl's mind-whammy. She didn't want them to remember seeing her, so it was only logical that she'd also remove all the memories of them _coming_ to see her. _A pity_ , Erik thought. The car situation was a breakthrough of sorts. Then again - if they'd had it once, they could have it again. Erik dropped his hand and looked up at Charles. He smiled and Charles smiled back, came closer to where Erik was sitting. Erik reached out to brush their fingers together--

"Charles, there you are," MacTaggert opened the door and put her head inside. Erik's hand dropped immediately. "Erik, you too. We have to go."

Charles exchanged an amused expression with her and moved to the door. Erik got up, grabbed his jacket and put it on, then followed them out.

"Plane leaves for Russian in an hour," MacTaggert carried on. So she managed to get her bosses to agree to her rather insane plan. For all her faults and humanity, she sometimes impressed him, with her determination and stubbornness. In a way, he thought, they were alike. Strong-willed and driven. But she was arrogant as well, certain that her CIA training was enough to let her run this operation, let her go and face _Schmidt_. Erik had been tracking, hunting Shaw long before MacTaggert ever heard that name. She had no idea what to expect. She wouldn't know how to react. The only thing she'd be able to do - and Erik was sure that would be exactly what she would do - was to take out her issued gun and start shooting. Only, it wouldn't work. Not on Shaw, and come to think of it, not on Erik either. The only thing that might achieve was to severely wound one of those idiot kids. The very same she and Charles were putting so much faith in.

"I'm telling you," Erik said as he shook his head, "these kids are not ready for Shaw."

He was never more happy to be proven right than in that moment. Exception, right. They were, of course, exceptional, but they were untrained and unprepared and Erik didn't want to drag any of them to their deaths. He would cope with that, he long learnt that some things required sacrifice, but he knew that Charles would never forgive himself if anything happened to them.

"I expect more from you."

Erik winced. That was a very un-Charles-like thing to say, right down to the tone. That was something that could have escaped his mouth, or MacTaggert's mouth. Not Charles'. But maybe... Maybe he was wrong about Charles, after all. Maybe he did have a darker side, maybe his breaking point wasn't that far away. Maybe he wasn't as perfect as Erik wanted him to be.

"We'll go alone," Charles announced when he finally joined Erik and MacTaggert outside Graves' facility. He tugged at Erik's sleeve, but smiled at MacTaggert and Erik felt like his blood had turned into liquid ice. That wasn't right, it couldn't be. That smile, that little smile - the up-turning of his lips, a little crooked, open and amused - that was Erik's smile, Erik's and Erik's alone.

MacTaggert cleared her throat and climbed into a jeep that was to take them to the air hangar, but Erik saw her blush nonetheless.

_1962_

There was an explosion of blindingly white light and then nothing. Charles closed his eyes for a second, blinked, and when he opened them, the door of Tanya's room were wide open and the girl was gone. And so was Erik. Charles swayed on his feet and needed to grab an edge of Tanya's desk for support. Oh God. Oh. God. Something happened. He wasn't sure what - the light, the girl, and Erik, in the middle of it - but something _did_ and now they were both _gone_. Charles let go of the desk and made it to the door, got out into the corridor and down the stairs. In the hall he bumped into Tanya's father. The man glared at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Wha did ya do to my girl?" he asked, sneering. "Haven't seen her runnin' this fast in a long time. What did ya and yer buddy do?"

"She's run away?" Charles rebutted, a little breathless. No, no, God, no. He had to find the girl. She was the only way to find Erik. She'd done something to him - used her powers, and she was so afraid of them that she didn't even want to talk about them, much les demonstrate them for him. Why did he push her to talk to him? It was his fault that she lost her temper. It was his fault that she decided to use her powers, and he didn't even know what they were, he didn't know what she'd done to Erik. He had to find her, fast.

"Ya little white _shit_." Tanya's father narrowed his eyes and grabbed the lapels of Charles' jacket. He was Charles' height, but he was much bulkier and stronger, it was easy for him to slam Charles into a wall. "What the hell have ya told my girl?"

One of the man's hands moved to Charles' throat, sufficiently blocking the air. The man didn't have a problem with holding Charles down with just one hand. Charles started blinking furiously; it was getting harder and harder to breath, just an inch higher and the man will cut him off from oxygen entirely. Charles scraped at the man's hand, but it was useless, his nails were short and clipped, he didn't even scratch him seriously. It reminded him painfully of Kurt, _God no. No, please, no_ , Charles thought and tried to kick the man. He managed to hit his thigh, but it only made the man grunt and press harder. _Please, please_ , he thought desperately, _leave me alone, I can't breathe, leavemealone, Ican'tbreatheIcan'tbreatheleavemealoneleavemealoneIcan'tbreatheLEAVEMEALONE_.

The hand at his throat suddenly disappeared and Charles sagged down. Tanya's father was standing a feet away from him, with a blank expression on his face. Charles took several deep breathes and put two shaking fingers to his temple. _Forget my face_ , he commanded the man, _forget that we were here_. Certain that the memories were gone, Charles got up on his unsteady legs and left the flat. It was raining outside. Of course it was raining outside. Charles made it to the old Chevy and reached a shaking hand to grab the door handle, then remembered that the door was locked and Erik had their keys. He closed his eyes and put a hand in his pocket. He had some change on him, maybe that would be enough to phone Moira back in Langley. He left the car exactly where it was - maybe they'll come back for it later, with Erik, it _was_ a nice car after all - and went down the street, towards a corner where he was sure he'd seen a café on their way here. It was raining, more heavily now than it was five minutes earlier. He wasn't sure if the wetness on his face were just the raindrops or something else entirely. Damn it. It was his fault. He felt so useless after that Chinatown failure, he thought that trying again might help. He insisted on coming here - Erik didn't want to, he wanted to head back, but he agreed, for Charles - and then failed to notice that something was wrong. Erik did - Erik was observant, efficient, a soldier - while Charles didn't, and it was his fault. Half an hour ago he and Erik were sitting in the car, happy, _kissing_ , and now Erik was _gone_. That was... ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing Charles had ever heard.

He pushed the café door open and stepped inside, soaked and shivering. After his inquiry, a waitress pointed him to a small telephone in the back of the coffee shop. It took him three attempts to finally dial the number to Moira's office in the facility. She answered on a second call.

"I'm in Washington," Charles said, "in a café in Columbia Heights. Could you-- come pick me up?"

"Charles?" Moira asked, concerned at the sound of Charles' voice, small and frightened, and breaking. "Charles, did something happen?"

"No," he said immediately and Moira's grunt told him that she didn't buy that obvious lie. " _Yes_. Could you come? Please?"

"Charles, I'm several hours away and you have a car," Moira reminded him patiently. He sobbed. He was sure he actually sobbed into the receiver. "... I'll be there as quickly as I can. Stay where you are, okay?"

"Thank you."

He hung up and thanked the waitress. The woman - an elderly lady with a sweet, motherly smile - sat him at the table in a corner and told him to wait. Several minutes later she returned with a blanket that she'd draped across his shoulder, and a giant mug filled with steaming hot chocolate that she placed in front of him. When he made an effort to reach into his pocket and get out all the money he had, she patted him lightly on the head, in a way he remembered his nanny do when he was little.

"It's fine, sweetie," the waitress said kindly and he felt her stroke his hair in a comforting manner. "It's on the house. I'm not going to make such an angel pay for a little treat, now am I." She patted him on the top of his head again and moved to stand behind the counter. He put a hand to his temple, focused on her and gently probed her surface thoughts. She thought him cute and sad, decided that his eyes made him look like a lost puppy that was kicked one time too many. She thought-- no, she _knew_ he was in shock, was a nurse during the war and had seen many people with exactly the same expression. She thought he needed someone to keep an eye on him, decided that she was going to let him stay in her café until that friend of his comes for him, no matter how long that will take. Charles' hand dropped and he curled his fingers around the mug.

Soon the café emptied and even the usual customers paid for their drinks and left. Charles was huddled in the corner, now armed with two blankets and still shivering. The woman - Maureen - brought him another mug and a slice of a re-heated leftover pie. She put it on the table and settled on a chair next to him.

"Tea and sympathy, sweetie," she said quietly and reached out to rearrange the blankets. She huffed in exasperation when she noticed that he was wearing all of his damp clothes. "Out of that, young man," she said in a firm, take-no-shit voice. "No wonder you're shaking like a leaf, all that wet layers on this small frame, good God."

She made him take off his jacket and his shirt, then his trousers as well, and left him in his undershirt and briefs only. Maureen then brought yet another blanket and wrapped him in so tightly that he could hardly move. If the situation was different, he would have laughed. He would have thought it nice that someone thought him worth taking care of. Erik certainly did think that.

"Where is that friend of yours, young man?" Maureen asked, looking at the clock. It was well past midnight, the café was closed and the street outside was dark and empty. Charles had called Moira more than three hours ago - she should be coming here soon enough.

"She's coming here from... far away," Charles explained. "But she will be here soon, I won't be bothering you much longer."

"You are not bothering me, sweetie." Maureen put a lock of damp brown hair behind Charles' ear. "You just look like you could use a friend right now, angel."

He laughed bitterly, then promptly choked when Maureen used the opportunity to put a piece of hot apple pie into his mouth. He managed to swallow it and got just one mild burn on his tongue for the effort. Maureen chuckled and put a fork into his hand.

"Eat, sweetie," she moved the plate closer to him. "You look like Death on holiday, you need something warm. I don't wanna you to catch a cold here."

Charles ate the apple pie and drank two hot teas that Maureen brought him. He did feel better after that, warm and sleepy. He was vaguely aware of his head rolling to the side, and of Maureen sitting beside him, humming something that sounded like _Someone to Watch Over Me_ and running a hand through his hair, when he heard loud banging against the café's door. Maureen got up and went to the door, opened them and let the guest in. Charles raised his head, turned it to look at the newcomer. Moira was folding her umbrella.

"Charles!" she gasped when she saw him and hurried to his side. She perched on Maureen's chair and put a hand against his cheek. Thanks to Maureen, it wasn't as cold as it was several hours earlier.

"Moira," he greeted her.

"I'm sorry it took me so long," she hurried with an explanation, "but you didn't tell me in _which_ café you were. This is a fifth one that I'm checking."

"Tea, dear?" Maureen asked, and before Moira could reply, another mug appeared on the surface of Charles' table.

"Thank you," Moira said, and looked back at Charles. "Charles, what happened?" She frowned and looked around. "And where's Erik?"

Charles swallowed thickly.

"I don't know," he answered truthfully.

***

He told them what he knew, everything about that day, down to the last important detail - though he didn't tell them about the kiss. Raven would understand - he knew she already suspected as much, what's with her constant meddling back at Oxford and 'accidentally' bumping into Ronald Parvenue everywhere they went - but no one else would. Well, maybe Darwin and Angel. Others? Sean was surprisingly well-mannered and understanding when he wanted to be. But Hank... Hank was a scientist and would approach the subject just like a scientist would. Just like Charles would if this deviation was not his own. And Moira, oh God Moira. And her bosses, no, he couldn't risk it. He didn't fancy another-- another hospital trip, just like before. He shuddered.

Raven nearly suffocated him with her tight embrace when he finally returned to the CIA compound. She was worried sick about him, obviously heard something about that sobbing phone call from Moira. She clang to him like she used to when they were still children and some nights Raven was terrified that he'll tire of her, that he'll make her leave, that she'll be alone again. He put a hand in her long blond curls and pressed her tighter to his chest, fighting the urge to cry. And then she asked about Erik, worried as well, and the tears did fall. He told them the story - told them about Tanya and the light, and Erik's role in it - and when he was done, Angel and Raven were hugging each other, Sean's jaw was hanging open and Alex looked as shocked as Charles felt back in Maureen's café. They worried about Erik and they honestly missed them. Charles didn't even know that the kids - or Raven, for that matter - managed to get close to Erik. They didn't spend much time in the compound during their recruitment road trip - mostly, they made Raven and Moira deal with the newcomers - and the days they did were little and far in between. Yet somehow Erik managed to make an impression on the kids, warmed his way into their lives. And they wanted him back, even Moira did, that was obvious, maybe as much as Charles did.

"If Erik disappeared," Hank theorized as he pushed his glasses up, "it might mean that the girl has time-related powers."

"Time-related?" Raven asked.

"Maybe she can manipulate it," Hank explained, "send people back in time. Or forward."

"Time-travel?"

"Or reality manipulation," Hank carried on. "Maybe she'd sent him to an alternative universe."

"Alternative universe? Really, Bozo?" Alex shook his head. "That sounds like crap to me."

"Actually, it's not." Hank cleared his throat. "You will find that the term 'multiverse' was first coined by William James in 1895, and that the idea of--"

"I don't really give a damn, Hank," Alex interrupted him. "As far as I'm concerned, it might have been fairies that kidnapped Erik for candy ransom. I just want to know what can we do to find him."

That shut Hank up. The kids all looked at each other, then to Moira and to Charles. No one had a clue as to what they should do next. How to begin searching for a man you didn't know what _exactly_ happened to? If Hank was even partially right, Erik might be anywhere and at any time. That added up to _many_ places to search.

"I think the best way to find Erik is to find the girl who did it to him," Darwin finally said. "Maybe she could help."

Charles raised his head and looked straight into Hank's blue eyes. Hank raised his brows and Charles nodded. It was obvious, what they had to do next. They didn't even need telepathy to communicate that intent to each other. Hank got up from the sofa and headed towards the door.

"I'll get Cerebro ready."

Charles closed his eyes and sighed. A warm hand made its way between his own, and squeezed his fingers. He turned his head to the right and looked at Raven. She was biting her lip, concerned about him, sweet, loving Raven. He tried to smile and she wrapped her arms around him, bringing him close.

"It's going to be fine," she assured him. "We'll get him back."

He hoped - prayed, really, for the first time since he was a very little boy - that she was right.

_1963_

Emma huffed and stormed out of the room, agitated at whatever it was that Erik had said to her. The sound of glass shattering was heard from Magneto's office and Raven winced; she took a deep breath, gathered all the courage she had and entered the study. She had to duck quickly in order to avoid being hit by another glass that, like the previous one, met its end when it collided with the wall. Erik swayed on his feet, to drunk to stand straight. According to his wishes, they went on with the plan; they had to go behind Emma's back to do that, and it didn't pan out exactly as Erik had so neatly planned. They had a heated argument about that, Magneto got drunker and drunker with every word, and Emma finally called him functionally insane. It wasn't a thought Raven entertained having, but she did wonder if Erik was going mad without someone - an opponent, a partner - to ground him. She put an arm around him and helped him to his chair where she seated him. She bit her lip. She'd been thinking about it for some time - for longer than she'd be willing to admit - since Dallas for sure, but even before that too, some mornings when she'd stand in front of a mirror in her room, and would change into the familiar blonde she was for many years.

"Maybe we should contact Charles," she took a risk and said it out loud. Erik was wasted, there wouldn't be a better moment to bring this up. "We're not really making progress on our own," she carried on, still brave, though Erik's greenish-blue eyes were blazing dangerously, "but maybe if we got back together--"

She trailed of. Convincing people on both sides to the idea would take time, but it was doable. Charles was the most important factor and Raven knew he wasn't going to be a problem. She knew her brother, knew that he'd be more than happy to have them back, and she could be his little sister again, she could have her life back and her home back, and her family back.

"Work together?" Erik asked and sounded much more sober than he looked. "Are you giving up? Want to go back to the safe life already?" Raven pursed her lips. She didn't need to tell him that she missed her old life and everything in it. Erik was observant enough to notice it on his own. "You've made a choice, Mystique. Back on that beach, you've chosen me. Not your brother, _me_. You've made a decision and now you have to live with the consequences of it. Stop being the child your brother has always seen. Face the truth: you can _never_ go back."

Tears sprung to her eyes. That was not true, she didn't want to believe it. Charles would never send her away, he would never deny being her brother. She could always go back, any day she wanted to - Breakstone Park and its gates were going to be open for her, would always stay open for her, and Charles would always be there, waiting for her to come home. But Erik was partially right - she did make a choice and she didn't choose her family. And she would never go back. As much as she wanted to - and God, there were days when she was aching to go, when being apart from Charles physically hurt her - she would never do that. She was too proud to crawl back and admit that she was wrong, that she'd made a mistake. She'd stand by Erik till the end, and it could only end in one of two ways: they were either going to win or they were going to die.

But it didn't make Erik any less of a bastard for pointing out things she didn't want to admit to herself in the first place.

"You really don't care at all, do you?" she asked. There was a time when she'd thought that Erik at least cared about Charles, even if he didn't about anyone else. But then Erik had left Charles bleeding on a beach and Raven was forced to reexamine her initial assumption.

"No," Erik replied simply. "I don't. Why would I?"

Why would he indeed. Raven grit her teeth. On the chair, Erik hiccupped and reached for the one bottle of whiskey that remained full.

"It's not like any of this _shit_ is even real."

_1962_

Charles got them a location - just outside Washington - and Moira offered to go and pick the girl up. At first, Charles insisted on going with her, but then Angel kindly reminded him that he'd already managed to scare the girl shitless and who knew what she'd do if she saw him again. If anything, it was better to have just Moira and her CIA badge go and collect Tanya. Charles feared that she might try escaping again and that this time she's actually succeed; and maybe it was low of him, but he told Moira about Tanya's brother and advised her to use the boy's name as leverage if the girl didn't want to come. Hell, who was he kidding, it was a low-blow. He wasn't proud of it. But if it meant getting the chance to bring Erik back, he was willing to turn a blind eye on his own morals.

All in all, it took them less than twenty four hours to locate, find an bring Tanya in. Charles didn't want to know what threats Moira used to get the girl to the base, but he knew that Tanya was scared when they arrived. When she saw Charles, she became simply terrified. It was only Moira's arm that kept her from fainting or running away.

"Tanya, it's okay," he said as he raised his hands again, and the girl stopped struggling against Moira. "We just want to talk to you. We need your help."

"My help?" Tanya asked, caught off-guard with that simple statement. "How could _I_ possibly help you?"

"My friend," Charles explained, "the one who was at your house with me. We just want him back."

"Oh," the girl said and slumped a little, and Charles knew that wasn't a good sign. The girl looked defeated. "I don't think I can help you with that."

"No worries," Raven said cheerfully, which in and on itself was unexpected. She came over to the girl and wrapped her in a tight embrace, patted her on the back vigorously. Charles' heart swelled in pride. He liked to pretend that Raven was still a little girl for him to love and protect - even though she was twenty-eight, for God's sake - but seeing her like this, calm and efficient and in control, made him marvel at what an extraordinary person she grew up to be. "You're among friends now. I'm Raven, and you're safe here. We'll help you. My big brother, you see - he's amazing when it comes to teaching you to control and use your power. Everything is going to be fine, you just need to tell us what exactly it is that you can do."

Tanya shook her head miserably.

"I don't really know what I can do," she confessed and it made Raven pale slightly. She looked helplessly to Charles and to Hank, and then to Charles again. He didn't know what to say, Hank was at a loss as well.

"You gotta have _some_ idea of what you can do, cat." Angel stepped closer to the teenager. Surrounded by two friendly-appearing girls, Tanya lost some of the tension from the shoulders. "Even if you're not sure, you gotta know somethin'."

Tanya licked her lips. Raven and Angel exchanged meaningful looks and raised brows, and Raven let go of Tanya's arm. Angel led the girl to the sofa standing in the middle of their room while Raven quickly made her way towards the en suite kitchenette in order to get something to drink for their guest. She came back with a glass of cola and handed it to Tanya. The girl smiled weakly with gratitude.

"I can... misplace people," she said slowly. "When I get angry, or scared, I can misplace people."

"Misplace them _where_?" Hank asked, his voice laced with scientific curiosity. Raven shot him a murderous glare.

"I'm not sure." Tanya shrugged and sipped her cola. "Usually I can't find them."

"But you could, at least once?" Charles wondered, desperately clutching to the 'usually' part of the girl's statement. She had no idea what her power was truly about or what it could do, she had no control over it whatsoever.

"I tried to find my mum," Tanya whispered and she looked directly at him. There was such a misery etched onto her face, desolation and hopelessness that it hurt to watch. "But it didn't work out that well."

"What happened, girl?" Angel put an arm around Tanya's waist and pulled the teenager closer. "It's okay, take your time, but we gotta know. There's someone very important to us that's missin', cat."

"We had a f--fight," Tanya told them, "I got so angry, and I pushed my mum and she _d-disappeared_. I didn't know what to do, so I--I tried to f--find her, for weeks. I thought I did, so I p--pulled at her, but it wasn't my mum who appeared." Tears started running down Tanya's cheeks. "She was so _different_ , like it wasn't my _mum_ , and then she _killed herself_ , and dad started drinking, and it was my fault, I _made her that way_."

"Ssshhh, it's okay, gal." Angel ran a comforting hand up and down Tanya's back. "It's all okay, you're fine now, there."

Hank tilted his head to the side, indicating that he wanted to talk to Charles. Charles looked at Raven - _will you be fine without me for a second?_ \- and Raven nodded. Charles moved to stand by Hank in the little hallway leading to the recruits' rooms.

"It does sound like time-manipulation," Hank whispered fervently, "maybe even reality altering. She said she pulled her mother out from that alternative reality - we can replicate that, if she can remember how she'd done that."

"But you heard her. She thinks it wasn't her mother that she'd rescued," Charles reminded him.

"I think it's because the alternative reality managed to reshape the mother's psyche," Hank answered. "Think about it, Professor. She said she couldn't find her mother for weeks. We can make it in less than two days."

Charles looked over his shoulder to the room from where he could her Sean's agitated voice, telling the rest some stupid story or other. The laughs weren't as loud as usual, but they were _there_ and Charles felt a surge of affection for the children, at the thought that they are all trying so hard.

"Okay," he said. "Let's do it."

He and Hank went back to the living room of the recruits' quarters and upon their entry, the laughter died. Everyone was looking at them, including Moira, all with different stages of scared anticipation showing on their faces.

"Tanya," Hank started, "how did you find your mum?"

"I don't know." She took a breath. "I mean-- I was thinking about that fight, and one day I thought I felt her think it _back_. So I kind of tried to grab that thought, pull it to me. And I ended up with my mum back. Sort of," she added quietly.

"So if you were thinking about that moment when the Professor and Erik visited you, you'd be able to find Erik?" Tanya shook her head 'no'. "Why not?"

"I don't know him," she answered plainly. "I knew my mum, I'd always recognize her-- mind, I guess. But that man of yours - to me, he's like everyone else. I wouldn't know him from you," she finished, pointing at Hank.

Charles risked a glance at Raven, who immediately straightened up. Oh, clever girl, she already knew what he was thinking about.

"Charles, _no_."

Tanya didn't know Erik and would never recognize him. But Charles would.

"Tanya," he started, "do you think you could push me towards Erik?" The girl nodded hesitantly. "And if you did, do you think you'd be able to pull me back?"

Tanya extended her hand and Charles took it. She squeezed his hand several times, ran her fingers up to his elbow and all over his palm, pressed two finger to the pulse point on his wrist. She let go of his hand and nodded.

"I think I would," she breathed. "You're... different. Your mind, it's different."

"I'm a telepath," he said with a small smile. "What do you need me to do, now, before you use that groovy talent of yours?"

"Charles, you can't--," Raven started.

"Charles, this is _ridiculous_ ," Moira added, but he didn't listen, his eyes were fixed on Tanya. The girl took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back and forth in order to relax. She took his hand again.

"Think about something important to both of you," she instructed and tried very hard to sound confident and self-assured. "Something that binds the two of you." _Deep, cold water_ , Charles thought. _Pain and anger and fire, I'm not alone_. "And something very recent, because then he'd be thinking of it as well."

Not Miami then.

"Why?"

"It will be your anchor," Tanya answered. "At least, I think so. When I pulled mum, we were both thinking about our fight. That's how I found her. I think."

"You think too much," Raven grumbled from the couch behind them.

"Okay."

A car. A smile. A tune, Ella Fitzgerald singing on the radio. Laughter, Erik's laughter. Bad singing.

"You have twenty-four hours, Charles," Moira said firmly somewhere on his left. "I don't care if it's a rescue mission, in twenty-four hours, I'm asking this young lady here to bring you back. Do you understand?"

He nodded. Erik's thumb dragging across his lower lip, no one has ever done that, he's the first, the first, firstfirtfirst, the _one_.

"Tell me what you're thinking about," Tanya whispered in his ear. "I need to know so I can find you."

"Your house." Charles smiled. "A _kiss_."

He felt a light touch to his shoulder. Then there was white light and he felt as if he was falling.

_2012_

Charles groaned and got up from the floor, swept his hand over his trousers to get rid of the dust. His head was pounding, just like it used to after a good night of drinking when he was still an undergrad. He blinked and tried to get accustomed to the darkness of the place where he ended up. Where was it, anyway? He frowned. It wasn't the CIA base, he didn't feel any of the familiar minds of the agents or of the children. To be honest, he couldn't feel _anyone_ and it terrified him.

But, in the darkness, he did hear cautious footsteps.

"Hello?" he shouted in the general direction of the noise. The footsteps halted, then resumed their steady march towards him. As they got closer, Charles got a vague impression of the mind of their owner, and it felt somehow familiar - not in a way the minds of Raven or Erik, or the children were familiar, but there was something... something he recognized. "Hello?"

There was a loud, almost piercing, nauseating scream and it made him double over and cover his ears. Then he felt something press to his back, he felt terrible pain and his whole body stiffened. He felt himself falling, and he must have hit his head against something, because after that, there was only darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> End of Chapter One. Chapter Two will appear later this month, after my exams. Probably. Comments are always welcome!
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> Chapter Two: Truth & Consequences  
>  
> 
> _Charles meets the team of magnificent misfits and gets a crash course in mutant history. Old friends are visited, new friends are made, unhealed wounds are discovered. Also, there's pie._


End file.
